


Hold My Heart

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit of angst., M/M, Mycroft comes through again, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying at 18 was not what John had planned on.  Of course, neither was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I couldn't let go of these boys without giving them some romance.
> 
> Second story of the day will follow soon.

I want to tell you before  
the sun goes dark how to  
hold my heart, ‘cause I  
don’t wanna let go,  
I don’t wanna let go of you.  
-Sara Bareilles

Sequel to DUETS FOR ONE and LEAN ON ME

 

Well, this was a thing, wasn’t it?

John Watson had never expected to die at only eighteen. Nor had he expected to die locked in an underground bunker that smelled of damp and piss and other even less savory things. Who did, really?

Interestingly, the one thing that didn’t surprise him at all was that he was going to die in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

Over the past year, since their first meeting in Hyde Park, John had been along on any number of adventures with Sherlock. ‘Adventures’ was what he called them in his head. And also in the journal he started keeping soon after that meeting, writing it all down, because he never wanted to forget one minute of this. Much of what they had done was crazy and dangerous, like jumping London rooftops in pursuit of a dognapper. They caught him, though, and returned the tiny champion Yorkie to her tearful elderly owner. 

More than once over the months, John had muttered “Cor, Sherlock, you’re going to get both of us killed one of these days.”

And so it now appeared. This was their second day imprisoned here. Wherever here was.

Sad, really.

This whole thing---tracking the source of knock-off blue jeans for a shop owner who didn’t want the authorities involved---was the most interesting ‘case’ they’d had and Sherlock was completely excited by it. John was tolerant, not much caring about phony fashion statements, but rather entranced by an watching an excited Sherlock, who seemed to have amped up his usual manic energy even more, until he positively glowed with it.

The glow was something that would not have been written down in his journal, even had he had the chance to do so, which it now seemed certain that he wouldn’t. The glow belonged to John alone and if he chose not to think about the implications of that, he didn’t much care.

The Case of the Dodgy Denims, as he had planned to call it, was really meant to be one glorious final adventure before John headed to UCL and Sherlock to Cambridge in just two weeks. They had been avoiding the topic completely, because neither one of them was happy about the upcoming separation. While it was true that the distance between them would not be great---only about seven more kilometres than that between London and Brighton---this seemed like something else. It felt as if their lives would soon be going in totally different directions.

Which was too painful to talk about, so they just ignored what was coming.

John hated the thought that their friendship might change. Might even end. His life would go back to being the grey, lonely thing it had been before The Night of the Crablike Spiny Orb Weavers. And Sherlock…well, Sherlock would be at Cambridge, surrounded by others like himself, rich and smart and beautiful. His boring friend John Watson would soon fade into nothingness.

Of course, all of that looked like being a moot point now, locked as they were in this disgusting cell. Apparently peddlers of cheap and fraudulent blue jeans were touchy about having their livelihood threatened, even if only by a couple of schoolboys.

Sherlock was currently examining the parameters of the room, the tenth time he had done so over the last two days. The always-on single light bulb in the ceiling flickered. Finally, he huffed in exasperation and dropped onto the damp concrete next to John. “Damn,” he said.

John was feeling a little woozy from the lack of food. They’d been drinking water that was puddled in one corner and he didn’t even want to think about the parasites they had ingested. [Although Sherlock had kindly offered to list them for him. Alphabetically. John had thanked him, but declined.]

Anyway, that was just another moot point.

It was probably the slight dizziness that led him to reach over and take Sherlock’s hand.

The surprise was that Sherlock didn’t immediately pull away. Instead, he actually gripped John’s hand in return. “I do apologise, John,” he said. “I should not have put you in such danger.”

John sighed. “Or yourself,” he pointed out mildly.

Sherlock just shrugged, as if that didn’t matter very much.

Which made John a little angry. “No, stop that. Do you know what would be worse than this?” he asked.

Sherlock mouth twitched, as if he almost wanted to smile. “Worse than dying slowly in a filthy hole in the ground because the idiots of London want cheap blue jeans?”

“Yes. Worse would be not being here with you. Being out in the world, wondering where you were. Never knowing what had happened to you. Never seeing you again.” John nodded once, firmly. “That would be so much worse.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said with no heat, but with obvious affection. Well, it was obvious to John anyway. He doubted that anyone else would hear any sentiment at all in the clipped words.

“Best friend with you, though, aren’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

John didn’t say anything.

“I told you before, John. You’re my only friend. To make me keep repeating that is boring.”

John gave a slight giggle. He scooted closer and they leaned into one another. “I’m so glad we met that night,” he said after a moment.

Sherlock nodded and soft curls brushed John’s cheek.

“But you know something?”

“I know everything.”

John smiled. “Mostly. But maybe not this.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Amaze me, then.”

“Actually, it is rather amazing. I think that if we hadn’t met that night it would have happened some other time, some other place. We were, like, fated to meet and be friends.”  
Somehow Sherlock’s arm was resting across John’s shoulders. “That’s a rather fanciful view of things, John,” he said.

John smiled at him. [Ridiculous, of course, to be smiling under the circumstances.] “Oh, I’m a secret romantic. Surprised you haven’t deduced that, in fact.”

Sherlock looked offended. “I have, you know. But I dismissed it, because no one could be romantic about me.”

What the hell, John thought. I’m dying at eighteen, stuck in this lousy hole in the ground, with the only person I care about in the whole bloody world.

What did it matter at this point?

He didn’t really have to move at all to press his lips against Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock went very still.

John pulled back. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, it’s…fine. It’s all fine.” Now Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. His silver-green eyes seemed to glow, even in the poor light. “I’m glad we met, too.”

“Fate,” John said with a smile.

“No such thing---” The rest of Sherlock’s words were lost inside John’s mouth.

John had kissed a few girls, of course, because who got to eighteen without some lucky breaks? He’d never kissed a boy.

Or perhaps it was more important that he’d never kissed Sherlock Holmes before.

Who Sherlock might have kissed, he did not know. Did not care, really. Although, he did not think that it could have been very many others or he would have been better at it. But the slight clumsiness did not bother John; in fact, he found it…nice. Maybe it meant he was the very first to kiss this amazing person.

Of course, it was necessary to forget that neither of them had used a toothbrush in several days and they had both been drinking brackish water. John was a little surprised how easy it was to forget all of that.  
After a few minutes, they pulled back just a little, exchanged suddenly shy smiles, and then wrapped themselves together.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said.

“You could say so.”

“What does it mean?”

Sherlock was asking him to explain something? That was unprecedented.

“Well,” John said slowly, “in the grand scheme of things, given where we are and our apparently limited lifespans, I guess it could mean whatever we want it to.”

Sherlock would want to know more, of course. “What do you want it to mean?”

Damn the boy.

John sighed. “That I love you and don’t want to die without you knowing how I feel.”

It was quiet in the room until, with a loud pop, the light bulb finally gave up. Now they would be in the dark.

Wordlessly, they managed to somehow move even closer.

Apparently, Sherlock felt safer in the darkness. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “Have done forever.”

“You’ve only known me a year,” John replied.

“I stand by my words.”

John nuzzled at Sherlock’s ear. “I was scared, you know.”

“Of getting stuck in a place like this and dying miserably?”

“No. Of me going off to UCL and you to Cambridge. I thought…I thought you would meet a lot of smart and beautiful people and forget about me.”

“Please,” Sherlock said huffily. “You’re much more likely to make friends at uni and forget about the freak you once knew.”

“You’re not a freak,” John said, not for the first time.  
“You’re the only one to ever think that.” Sherlock sighed. “Nobody liked me, before you. But that doesn’t matter, John. It wouldn’t matter if everybody at Cambridge lined up alphabetically to befriend me. I love you. That’s all I want.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“Idiot,” Sherlock whispered back. Now the word sounded lovely.

Finally, still wrapped together, they both fell asleep.

*

Suddenly everything was all bright lights and noise that yanked them into abrupt, terrifying wakefulness. They didn’t pull apart. Blinking, John saw men in black, holding very big guns, piling into the room. Then, most improbably, a familiar figure in a three-piece suit, carrying not a gun, but a furled brolly, entered as well.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sounding relieved and just a bit annoyed. “Took you long enough.”

“Hello, little brother. You do always make things more complicated than they need to be.”

John was still blinking, trying to understand what was happening. “We’re not going to die?” he said stupidly.

“Not today,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Although I can make no guarantees if you persist in your association with my brother.”

A medic was suddenly kneeling in front of them, trying to check their vital signs. The task was complicated by the fact that they were still holding on to one another. She finally managed to untangle their arms and check pulses.

From somewhere, Sherlock seemed to draw upon n a hidden reserve of strength. He straightened and glared at his brother. “John will be continuing his association with me,” he said firmly.

John just shrugged and smiled, before taking Sherlock’s hand again.

Sherlock nodded in affirmation of something, although John was not entirely sure what. “I hope you brought food,” he said to his brother. “John is hungry.”

Mycroft only looked bemused, before turning around and ordering someone to fetch the sandwiches from his car.

 

fini


End file.
